


The Tourney of Time

by JaneTurenne



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:38:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneTurenne/pseuds/JaneTurenne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the coincidence of a House Brax in ASoIaF and a Brax in Gallifrey: Queen Romana holds a tourney, and all the nobles of Gallifrey--or possibly of Westeros--attend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tourney of Time

The man in the dented black and white armor stood awkwardly and dusted the dirt from his breastplate with a gauntleted hand.

“Has my Queen seen enough for one day?” Lord Narvin asked, a sigh in the edges of the question.

“Certainly not,” said Queen Romana, pursing her lips. ”What kind of coward turns his lance aside in the face of his foe?”

“The kind compelled by his honor to compete in your Grace’s tourney, but resigned in advance to the inevitability of being spilled into the dirt, and with no desire to prolong the agony,” Narvin answered, staring his Queen insolently in the face.

“I ought to force you to ride another joust, if you treat your responsibility to this kingdom with so little regard,” said the Queen, severely.

“I beseech your Grace, show mercy,” said another voice, deep and booming, emanating from an armored knight cantering towards her dais on a perfectly groomed courser.

“I would not expect to find you pleading Lord Narvin’s cause, Ser Brax,” the Queen replied.

“I did not mean mercy for him, your Grace. I was thinking of these gathered crowds, who would otherwise be subjected a second time to the disheartening sight of Lord Narvin’s jousting. Surely no monarch so just and so beautiful as your Grace could be so cruel as to condemn them to such a fate,” Ser Brax rejoined, pulling up his reins before the Queen on her dais.

The Queen stifled a smile. ”Oh, very well. Off you go, Lord Narvin. Your punishment shall be to know yourself in Ser Brax’s debt. I know well that will hurt you worse than any blow from a lance.”

Lord Narvin made a sour face, but knew better than to protest. “Your Grace,” he said, with a reluctant bow, and hastily withdrew.

“New armor, Ser Brax?” the Queen asked him.

“How generous of your Grace to notice. Does it meet with your approval?”

Romana looked him up and down, taking in the violently purple armor, the foot-long spiral horn protruding from the helm. “It’s very… distinctive,” she said, biting her lip.

“It is but half-complete, as yet.”

“It looks very snug to me.”

“And yet for my part I feel bare and but little secure within its confines. Only one addition could make me feel truly protected.”

“And what is that, Ser?”

“Your favour to wear, my Queen. Indeed, without that, I am like to tumble from my horse without taking a single blow, brought down by my own broken heart.”

“For your own sake, Ser Brax, I hope your pretty lies are nothing more, for if my kerchief would indeed be the only thing binding you to your saddle, then tumble you must. My favor is already given, and another already fights in my name. Perhaps if the Hand of the Queen cared more for the timeliness than the style of his entrance to the lists, he would not be thus disappointed.”

Ser Brax pressed a hand to his heart. “You wound me to the core, my Queen, but in this life it is only through pain that we learn. On the day of your next tourney, I shall come knocking at your chambers even before the rising of the sun.”

Romana’s eyes flashed. “The man who dared so much would prove himself bold indeed, but very unwise. You would do well to remember that it is not for boldness that I gave you your position, _Ser_.”

Brax had a keen nose for danger, especially where his Queen was concerned. “The words were ill-chosen. In your gracious presence, all grace is _your_ grace, your Grace, and the rest of us must gracelessly muddle along as best we may. Pray pardon my tactlessness.”

“Your fault is rather an abundance of tact, Ser Brax. I would have you use your flatterer’s tongue for the good of the realm, not of my vanity.”

“Whatever my Queen commands, that shall I gladly perform,” said Brax, with a gallant little bow. “But tell me, your Grace, who is it that has stolen the prize for which I so yearned?”

The trumpets sounded behind Ser Brax, and he wheeled his horse. On the field, two armored riders charged towards each other. One, like Lord Narvin, was garbed in the simple, colorless plate of the Knights of the CIA. The other wore the red armor and cream cloak of a member of the Queensguard, but very oddly assembled. The armor had clearly been designed for a larger wearer, and the cloak had been slit almost completely in two and tied crossways around the breastplate—a sensible precaution, with the number of times Ser Brax himself had seen a Queensguard knight unhorsed by a lance snarled in his cloak. The red rider had forgone the usual Queensguard helm with its large circular ornaments over the wearer’s ears, and instead wore only a simple metal cap, face left fearlessly unprotected. This combattant would make a strange sight in any event, but strangest of all was her sex: this was the Lady Leela, foreign-born wife—or perhaps widow—of the missing Ser Andred. After his disappearance, Leela had become not only the Queen’s staunchest protector, but her dearest friend and confidant as well. Around her arm fluttered a kerchief in the Queen’s colors of gold and cream.

“Of course,” murmured Ser Brax. “I might have known.”

“Sevateem!” bellowed the Lady Leela, as she thundered towards her foe.

“Sevateem!” echoed the Queen, clapping her hands. “Leela!”

The riders met with a tremendous crash. It was obvious to Brax from the first that it would be a well-fought match, and so it proved. The Lady Leela’s style was akin to no one else’s, wild and undisciplined, but she sat a horse as though born in the saddle—as a Dothraki, perhaps she had been—and was strong, swift and all the more deadly for her unpredictability. Her opponent, however, seemed unusually skilled in guessing what she might do, and their first four passes saw them evenly matched, with four shattered lances apiece. It was only in their fifth and final pass that the CIA knight’s lance slipped just before impact, barely missing the Lady Leela’s shield and granting her the victory.

The crowd might otherwise have been reluctant to cheer for a foreigner and a woman besides, but the Queen was already out of her seat, smiling one of her rare, brilliant smiles and clapping enthusiastically, and her courtiers and commons could hardly fail to follow. Meanwhile, Leela herself wheeled, leaped her horse over the tilt in a tremendous bound, and chased her opponent to his own side of the list.

“You meant to do that,” said Leela, grasping the defeated CIA knight by the shoulder and turning him to face her. “You meant to turn your lance. Why would you do such a thing, _weasel-mouth_?”

“That’s _Ser_ Weasel-Mouth to you, _Savage_.” The knight pulled up his visor to look her in the eye. His tone was condescending, but there was something of genuine amusement in his expression. “And for once, it’s a very good question. Why _would_ I do such a thing? I could have had no cause for losing a-purpose, and therefore I must not have done any such thing. I wish you joy of the victory. It was well-ridden.”

Leela narrowed her eyes, squinting at the knight. “You CIA tricksters…” she began, but Queen Romana’s voice interrupted her, calling from the royal box.

“Ser Torvald is right, Leela,” said the Queen. “It was well-ridden indeed, on both your parts. Now permit the man to go lick his wounds in peace. You must prepare to face your next opponent.”

“You honor me beyond my desert, your Grace,” Ser Torvald said, with a bow in the Queen’s direction, and turned to depart. As he rode past Leela, he added. “Best of luck, Savage. And do try not to kill anyone.”

Leela huffed at him, but let him go, turning her horse to ride furiously out of the lists.

“The next bout is yours, Ser Brax,” Romana observed. “Against Ser Matthias, I believe. Does it worry you, to face a younger rider?”

“If I might have a kiss from my Queen for luck, nothing on this earth would ever worry me again.”

The Queen pointed an imperious finger towards Brax’s side of the lists. “Go ready yourself for the joust, Brax,” said Romana, “before you grow so impudent that I am obliged to hope for your defeat.”

“As you have not become so obliged _yet_ , I may ride at least with the knowledge that you hope for my success,” he said. “And to avoid disappointing his Queen, what would any man not do?”

“Well, then,” said Romana, with a tiny smile, “I expect you to put on a simply _astonishing_ show.”

“Oh, I promise you, my Queen,” said Ser Brax, as he turned, “there is no field where I excel so well as in putting on a show.”


End file.
